


Boring Through and Through

by PunmasterExtraordinaire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A day at the beach, Angst and fluff and humor, Boredom, Character Study, Contemplation, Gen, Lake Erie, and the lack thereof, friendship/ambiguous romance, mood whiplash to da max
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunmasterExtraordinaire/pseuds/PunmasterExtraordinaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Today's adventure had begun on the other side of the Atlantic, when America crashed through England's plate glass window, tripped over a stack of paperwork, landed face-first on his desk, and told him in all seriousness that he would not leave until England agreed to go do something fun with him, because he was completely, totally, seriously bored."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the First

America blinked lazily at the sun setting slowly over Lake Erie, feeling the itchy warmth of water evaporating off his sand-dusted skin, the whisper of dying winds threading through his hair, and the soft susurrus of the evening waves rolling up the shore.

Somewhere behind him sat a mildly sunburned England in an ancient black inner-tube America had found earlier, a rain-umbrella near to hand because he seemed to have no comprehension of a day at the beach without an unexpected shower. Without looking, America knew he'd be leaning on one hand and reading some decrepit old book or another in clear violation of what was proper beach-reading material (a Greek letter in the title was mandatory, for one, with a word like "protocol" or "initiative").

It was, frankly, an endless moment of endless peace.

America sighed, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

~o~

They'd arrived at America's personal beach in mid-morning, as the water began to warm and the heat and humidity was just beginning to make themselves felt.

Getting England to relax had been a bit of a trial, since the guy seemed to have a spine left over from the 1880s and enough work-created tension to suspend a bridge, but it hadn't been all that difficult in the end. America had the distinct feeling England wouldn't have allowed his kidnapping if at some level he didn't want to play hooky from his duties and be thoroughly cheered up.

England had attempted to make out the blurry line on the horizon that America swore was Canada, all the while with that peculiarly English expression that said quite clearly that the owner thought his chain was being thoroughly yanked (or in Englandese, having the piss taken out of him, _ew_ ) but was too polite to call him out on it. America just grinned and told him with deadly seriousness about the vast plagues of mayflies that swarmed every spring and died, leaving ankle-deep drifts of carcasses to crunch and stink underfoot.

He kind of wished he could have taken a picture of the face he'd gotten then, the slow shift from dubiousness into complete, horrified incredulity.

He'd gone on to collect interestingly-shaped rocks and spotted sea-glass gleaming bright against the dark sand, all of which was swiftly plundered by a foul pirate with a rakish smile, a gull feather in his hair, and an equally bright gleam in his eye.

"Old habits die hard," the pirate said apologetically, not looking very apologetic at all as he dodged the wet sand America in turn 'accidentally' kicked his way.

To guard the treasure they constructed a vast sand fortress, their respective flags waving proudly at its towers—before England elbowed him aside, grumbling about making the battlements more historically accurate and militarily advantageous. America just laughed and went to go make miniature buckets of hot oil to pour on attackers.

After the sandcastle finally surrendered to entropy and dissolved back into the waves, they'd taken the jet-ski out for a spin, and while America insisted he hadn't meant it _quite_ so literally, that wasn't very convincing when he'd taken a turn too fast and flipped them both into the water.

They'd gone swimming a few times, England with that slightly surprised expression he always got when he hit the water and discovered that yes, something that large _was_ fresh water (for a given value of fresh, anyway). America had valiantly protected him from the vicious zebra mussels or poisonous water snakes or krakens or _whatever_ the heck it was that just slid over his foot, England had rolled his eyes, America had flicked water at him for his ungratefulness, and the splash fight that ensued could have capsized one of the coal barges they saw on the horizon. America had reach and strength, but England had the flexibility and speed of a freakin' _dolphin_ —or, knowing him, a shark—and in the end they had to call a truce and flop, panting, on the shore.

That moment lingered in his mind for reasons he wasn't entirely certain of, but already he was sure it was one of those instants that remained in memory for years if not centuries. Even hours later it was as clear as if it happened mere seconds ago: the world washed warm and soft and bright by afternoon sun, the sounds of his own helpless guffaws echoing back at him as England turned to look at him, wet sand and muck smeared up one side of his face, lake-weed caught in his eyebrows, hair gone dark and flat and soaked but eyes brighter for it. He'd laughed too, then, not loud and carelessly like America did or in the biting tones of his got-you-at-sword-point chuckle, but in the soft, silent puffs of air from an open-mouthed smile that was his true laugh, eyes crinkling and face relaxing in a way that made you realize only then how tense he'd been before.

It had been…nice. Yeah. Nice.

~o~

Now America lounged on his beach towel as sunlight soaked into his bones, the only sounds in his ears the gentle crash of waves and the slight rustle of pages turning, and he was almost, well, content.

And that meant everything was wrong.

Because, you see, America was not bored.

America was utterly, unnervingly, _inexplicably_ not bored.

And that was seriously uncool.

~o~

It was weird—wait, no. America himself was all kinds of weird, and that was totally fine. These days certain types of weird were even cool.

No, this was _freaky_ , like in those Japanese horror films he couldn't help but watch where there was just one little thing off, one camera angle or clue or whatever niggling at the back of your mind, and you looked around desperately because you just _knew_ something horrible was about to happen. Since this usually ended up with a wet girl in pajamas trying to claw his face off, America thought it completely understandable that he found this sensation unbalancing.

So here he was, continuing to mentally glance up in expectation of the other shoe to drop and hit him on the head cleat-first. In the peculiar, amiably irritated musical chord of his and England's peculiar, amiably irritated relationship, the not-being-bored was the equivalent of the one dissonant note turning a major chord into a minor, normalness to weirdness.

He sighed, only a trifle melodramatically. He just wished it was a minor _annoyance_ too.

Because America _knew_ how he worked, okay? He strolled through life, tasting a little here and dabbling a little there, never stopping because frankly nothing interested him for long. His hunger was infinite, and he constantly nibbled, finding what he liked, gorging himself and tiring of the flavor almost as soon as he found a new favorite. He fidgeted as a matter of course.

He'd get the newest video game or disgustingly delicious food or a scandal would hit the news, and he'd be entertained, yes, focused with a single-minded intensity on that and nothing else—but before long he'd lose interest, and whatever it was would slip out of his hands and carelessly fall to the ground, perhaps to be picked up again, perhaps not. His attention would wander elsewhere, and in his grasp would appear something else for his perusal almost without conscious effort, like the absent-minded pick-pocketing of a criminal on vacation.

He'd travel to foreign places and exotic locales, but as a tourist, nothing more. If he wasn't tied to his land and his people, he had the distinctive feeling he'd be a lifelong hitchhiker.

Hell, he'd invented the mosey himself.

~o~

America was the kind of person who'd take apart the universe just to see how it worked, then—curiosity satisfied—leave it in pieces and bounce off to take apart something else.

It was his greatest asset and his worst flaw, he knew. It had been within him from the first time he opened his eyes to the soft-rough rustle of tall grass, looked out across the endless golden of the plains under the bleached blue of the sky, and thought _I want it all_.

And from that day on, so it went. Forging his own path until his destiny gave up and manifested to his will, territories bought and territories conquered as he stretched and strained and sprawled until not even the pedestrian earth was enough anymore and he turned his eyes to the skies, then the stars. Eventually even that became unfulfilling, and more and more often these days he fled into his own imagination, crafting superheroes and aliens and giant robots as the real world and real technology plodded on, bland and tedious.

It was inborn, ingrained, inseparable; testing the limits to the point of collapse, balancing delicately on the tipping point, tossing aside the shards of what had been the breaking point, never stopping until _not enough_ became _too much_ , and sometimes not even then.

It was the bright gleam in every child's eyes when they insisted they would be an astronaut-princess-surgeon-firefighter, the incandescent, manic flame in the eyes of every inspired inventor, the mindset never articulated because it was so obvious as to need neither mention nor consideration.

Take refuge in audacity, it said, then have the audacity to break out again. Cross the line twice, then come back and do backflips down its length.

An unfulfilling burger? Wrap it in bacon, deep-fry that McDonalds-lovin' son of a heart attack and add _sprinkles_.

An unfulfilling life? Jump out a plane, climb a mountain, join a rock band, die young and beautiful and loved by all.

Go, go, go, said the burn in his thrumming heartbeat, a restless curiosity, a yearning for nothing in particular, yet _everything_. And whatever you do, never _ever_ stop. Because the black depths waited to drag you down and drown you.

And so America danced through life, always forward— _always_ forward—but with an aimlessness and restlessness like an itch under his skin.

He smiled, a bit crookedly, and found his fingers flicking automatically through the guitar solo of _Ramblin' Man_. And to think his people wondered why the concept of the road trip was so pervasive in their culture.

But the way it was with England, it felt like he danced, all right—yet without realizing it always circled _him_.

~o~

It was bad enough when other people did things that made no sense. It was far worse when _you_ did them too.

Today's adventure had begun on the other side of the Atlantic, when America crashed through England's plate glass window, tripped over a stack of paperwork, landed face-first on his desk, and told him in all seriousness that he would not leave until England agreed to go do something fun with him, because he was completely, totally, seriously bored.

And while the first part of his declaration was undoubtedly true—he only had to look at the dark circles under England's eyes to dig in heels both metaphorical and literal—but the second part was a lie of such magnitude America was surprised his pants didn't catch fire right there and then.

An hour later (after England went through his usual not-entirely-convincing sequence of apoplexy, attempted murder, outright refusal, and cuss-fest) he sat next to America on the plane, looking as though he didn't quite know how he'd gotten there. For his part, America stretched out in the cramped legroom given him and tried not to grin too widely, since it tended to creep out the stewardesses as much as it charmed them.

He was particularly pleased with himself when he tipped the wink to his TSA officials at Cleveland Hopkins International and got the paperwork England insisted on bringing with him confiscated.

"I'm sorry sir," one agent said, straight-faced. "These will be returned to you when you board your return flight."

As England fumed fruitlessly against American paranoia and bureaucracy, America gave the agent a double thumbs up and mouthed his thanks. The only reaction on her stony face was a slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes.

~o~

He had claimed boredom, there on England's desk as the tinkle of broken glass subsided and the expression of inchoate rage on England's face gradually overcame the shock. It was a believable enough lie; everyone knew America had the attention span of a toddler with a lollipop dusted with prime crack cocaine. And indeed, he'd been kicking his heels around Europe for a quite a while at that point, twiddling his thumbs across a continent in classic American style.

It had been a lie as soon as it left his mouth, though. He could have sat there and watched England do paperwork or embroider or shuffle around the house in his threadbare slippers or _anything_ , really, and he would've been completely fine.

It happened _every_ time, it had _always_ happened, and it _only_ happened with England, contrary to everything he knew about himself and how he worked. Because whatever this was, it was not right and not normal and not _him_ at all.

Heck, his nomadic nature even extended to his romantic entanglements. They were just that: _entanglements_. He wasn't a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy, no—but after the first flush was gone the boredom would set in, and _fast_. It was no insult to his partners; it was simply the way he was, and it was far better to end things before they became too involved to end things without pain. So before long he'd amble away again, leaving them with a smile and generous trade agreements and amiable sociopolitical relations.

It was the same everywhere: he was friendly with just about everybody, but that did not make him _friends_ with everybody. At his massive parties— _such a self-important attention-seeker_ , they'd whisper to each other, shaking their heads—he'd waft from one group to the next, drifting here, dawdling there, dilly-dallying everywhere.

He was just being a good host, he told himself with a wink, and ignored how quickly he got bored with his guests, and how he invited so many people in part so he wouldn't offend them too much by straying away so quickly.

Such parties invariably ended up with him standing next to England, his excuse being outwardly to keep him away from the alcohol, seeming in actuality just to annoy him, truly because at least there he wasn't bored out of his mind.

~o~

Boredom really wasn't the right word sometimes, he decided. Boredom was too…trivial. _Tired_ was better. He was _tired_ of a lot of things.

Like how they all _wanted_ so much, the hunger naked on their faces whenever they looked at him, clear in every tilt of the head and lingering gaze. They didn't do it intentionally, he knew, didn't even _know_ they were doing it, couldn't help but do it—but that didn't help.

Not when they stood far too close and he had to fight the tension in his shoulders and the urge to step back, because that would look like a retreat and America _never_ retreated. Not when it was so eye-rollingly obvious they wanted from him not himself but what they could gain from him. Not when the itch under the skin yelled that he just needed to throw everything aside and flee, get out and do something, _anything_ else, because whatever was happening here couldn't possibly end well.

The next Roman Empire, they called him sometimes, and he had smiled at first, thinking of gilded olive branches and crowds roaring their approval and the beautiful momentum of wealth, land, and power.

It was only much later that he thought of the paranoia, the desperate, clawing struggles to cling to power as corruption and stumbling ambition ripped it all to pieces, the whipcord-lean, yellow-eyed wolves turning against their master with laughing jaws until all that was left were the roads, trodden on by the ignorant and uncaring of the glory that was before.

In his early years of power, he had welcomed his fellow countries' hungry eyes, mistaken it for adoration or at least subservience. It was what he always wanted, wasn't it? Growth unfettered, unhindered, impossible, _unstoppable_. It was the dream of every nation from Sealand to Russia, after all; everybody wanted to rule the world. In an earlier era, one of wars before diplomacy, taking instead of giving, where as far as nations were concerned 'guilt' and 'conscience' were just weirdly spelled words in the dictionary, he might have kept enjoying it.

But these were very different times, and these days it only hurt. Even in these days of rising China and India and Brazil and the entrenched powers of Europe, they still turned to him. _Just fix it already_ , they'd say even as they whispered _though you'll just mess it up anyway like you always do._ And even when he gave into their want, it wasn't enough, it was _never_ enough, because they needed more or something else or he wasn't _doing_ it right, can't you _see_ you fool, can't you do _anything_ without blundering around and messing up?

The worst was the poorest, the war-torn, the dollar-a-day, those of oppressive regimes or slash-and-burn. Unlike the wealthier nations who at least had the grace to conceal it under condescension, they didn't keep the thoughts from their faces at all, the _what gave you the right to be on top_ , the _you could save me with a snap of fingers, you could make everything better, what kind of cruel person wouldn't_ _ **help**_ _—_ and worst of all the _no hero you are, but a villain_ , because it was true. Because America hungered too, and his want never ended.

There was a damn good reason he chose not to read the atmosphere. After all, people usually didn't appreciate it when he went crazy and nuked everything.

~o~

England wanted too, just as much if not more than the others. Yet, somehow, when their eyes met…

When their eyes met, America felt like he could actually give him all he wanted, and be happy doing it.


	2. Part the Last

He quickly shook such thoughts from his mind like muddy water from a dog's coat. America was a cheerful person by nature, and his occasional bouts of melancholy were less _de_ pression than _com_ pression, springing him back easily to his natural good humor. Angsty, artsy-fartsy flicks were really more a European kind of thing; he much preferred explosions and cheesy romance and—above all—happy endings.

America wouldn't be America if he couldn't ignore, compartmentalize, or outright forget things he didn't want to think about, to persuade himself to get bored of them just that little bit faster. He just gave his natural cycle a push; even melancholy got tedious after a while, after all, and before long even a well-deserved moping would begin to feel a bit silly. He couldn't comprehend how England managed to be so grumpy, so gloomy, so… _Byronic_ all the dang time.

Sometimes America thought it was because he _couldn't_ grow bored like America could. That he kept clinging on in sheer bloody-mindedness to the scarlet tatters of his past and his over-darned shreds of dignity, fighting in the streets and beaches and hills and fields beyond the point of rescue or hope or sanity, grasping grudges and anger and revolutions long past their expiration dates.

What a pair they made, England clutching too tight as America released too soon.

~o~

"What are you grinning about?" said England, breaking him out of his thoughts.

America tilted his head back to look at the back of his fair head where it bent over his book. "What makes you think I'm grinning? You can't even see me from there. For all you know I'm thinking about burgers with E. coli or the transient nature of life or how boring you are or something equally depressing."

"Because, you impertinent git, I can feel it from here," came the unruffled answer. "Feels like a sodding second sun. Do try to dim it down, will you? I'd prefer not to get too sunburned today."

"If you deigned to venture out of your gloomy mansion and into the sunlight once in a while, my dear vampire, you wouldn't have this problem," America drawled, attempting to mimic England's accent. He sounded rather posh, if he did say so himself.

"I should think not. I'd hate to sparkle tastelessly and have teenage girls throw themselves at my immortal feet."

America pouted. "Hey, man, I thought we agreed never to mention those. You pinky-swore and everything!"

"Indeed. You promised not to try to speak in any of my accents, and I promised not to mention those-books-that-are-not-to-be-named."

America sighed. "Fine, fine. You're no fun."

"Yes, I'm no fun and old and fusty and boring. Just don't try Cockney."

~o~

But despite all evidence otherwise, he _wasn't._ And that was annoying beyond belief.

America had been overwhelmingly relieved when Russia finally broke eye contact and ended their chilly half-century staring contest, because—despite the fact that the fate of the entire world was at stake—he'd been bored stiff by the whole business by the second decade in.

It'd been the same with Korea, Vietnam, even the current Middle Eastern brawl; bored even as he fought, killed, died, and killed again. Even the new toys his military gave him sometimes got old fast.

But England…England had fascinated him for centuries, and it made _no sense at all_.

It wasn't as if England was objectively all that _interesting_ , which made it even worse. With say, Prussia, one could never quite predict what hilarious lunacy the guy might pull out of nowhere, and Russia was the same in his own…special…way. But England? No. By all rights England should have been boring as France always said he was.

He had England's morning and afternoon tea rituals timed down to the second (and, sheesh, he said _America_ was overly religious). He could write a dictionary on the seemingly hundreds of different British synonyms for 'idiot,' and when the other's temper snapped America could recite in harmony his many rants against Americans, the French, the E.U., the U.N., the universe, and the vastly inferior alcohol one got these days.

He could identify what type of tea England had for breakfast just by the way he _smelled_ , and boy had that been a weird discovery to make at six a.m. when England had taken his chair next to him at a meeting and his bleary mind had commented _Huh, Darjeeling today. Must have dreamed about sailing again._ Especially considering he'd never touched the stuff himself after 1773.

By all that was deep-fried and smothered in chocolate, he was pretty sure he had England's _jousting_ _technique_ pinned down, and he'd never even seen him so much as pick up a lance (despite many Renaissance Faires spent full of entreaties on his part).

Not that this was creepy or anything, jeez, it's not like he _stalked_ him like some kind of _Belarus_ or anything, okay? This was a matter of _national security_. Admittedly, it hadn't made America feel any more secure, but he was sure it was only a matter of time before his reconnaissance paid off. In the meantime, he had an excellent view whenever England attempted to program his DVR, and if _that_ wasn't worth popcorn and an upload to the internet, he didn't know what was.

He'd memorized—almost without meaning to—every cynical brow-raise and gentlemanly snort of disbelief, every drunken flush and disapproving look, every barely-restrained snarl of fury or hidden smile, every finger-twitch in search of a neck to throttle or bottle-neck to smash against a bar-top. Hell, when it came down to it he thought he might know England's face better than his own.

America knew just how he'd pretend to relax his shoulders when he was in pain and refused to show it, the way he'd tilt his head when he was listening to his magical hallucinations, the slight difference in how he resettled his tie that was all that distinguished between _America's being an annoying git_ and _America's being an amusing git_ , the way when someone was trying to press him his left hand would angle ever so slightly inward towards the hidden knife he used to wear in his belt buckle.

He knew—

—and that was just it, wasn't it? He _knew_. And by all rights that should have been enough. He should have gotten bored _ages_ ago, mentally wandered off on his itinerant way in search of new entertainment, new horizons, new Englands.

Yet in a complete reversal of all that was natural, here he was, not bored out of his mind and completely driven out his mind about it.

He'd tried everything, over the years. He kept within his own hemisphere for a century, and not only because he was of the firm (and not unsubstantiated) opinion that all Europeans were complete jerks. When that didn't work, he—through a series of completely unsuspicious coincidences—managed to trap himself and England in his Montana home for over two months in the dead of winter in the hopes of overexposure dulling his interest. While that particular experience had been very intriguing in a number of ways (for example, he discovered what happened when an Englishman got cabin fever), it hadn't made England as boring as he rightfully should have been.

It was—not terrifying, not in the least— _unsettling_ to have such an anomaly in his life, and if he was smart he should've just stayed away until whatever-it-was died or, better yet, got bored itself and left.

But England was an exception, always was, and America had the not-as-horrifying-as-it-should-have-been feeling that he always would be.

And, really, there was only one conclusion a red-blooded American male could reach from that.

~o~

America's eyes snapped open as the shocking realization dawned.

He didn't know how, he didn't know why, but _England was doing it on purpose_.

"You!" he shouted, bolting upright.

England jerked up from his book, blinking in a way that betrayed how he'd actually been dozing. "Wha…?" he managed to get out, wiping away something that looked suspiciously like drool and squinting up at him through the sunlight.

America was not to be distracted by his devilish wiles. He thrust a stern finger in the other's face. "You! Stop being boring and _not being boring!_ "

England stared at him.

America stared right back.

England blinked.

America refused to be cowed.

Finally, England broke. He gave a polite little cough, quirking one shaggy eyebrow hesitantly. "I…beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Stop being boring and not being boring! Don't think I'm not onto your little tricks."

"Yes, I suppose I _did_ hear what I thought I heard. It didn't make any more sense this time either. What are you on about?" And England must have been a much better actor than America thought, because he looked honestly confused.

Oh, he was _good_. But America was better.

America grinned the grin he used to wear when shooting down enemy planes, the one that got him into more scrapes than he could count and out of even more. It meant he was about to do something incredibly, stupidly risky but had every possible ounce of confidence he'd come out on top. The grin was rarely proven wrong.

England clearly found it familiar as well, because his seaglass-green eyes narrowed. "I know that look, what are you planning?"And before he caught onto America's ingenious plan, America seized his chance and threw England bodily over his shoulder.

"What—what the bloody hell are you—" his load sputtered, bright red, as America sprinted down the pier with a swiftness borne of desperation.

Realizing his goal all too quickly, England started yelling in earnest, struggling fruitlessly to escape. "No no no _no_ I just got dry you idiot I'm wearing clothes put me down this instant or so help me I'll—"

America finally, blessedly reached the end of the pier and _heaved_.

And with a long, drawn-out cry of " _Giiiiiiiiiit!_ " England flew out in graceful, flailing arc, hitting the water with an enormous splash.

He rose out of the water like Venus from the sea-foam or Halle Berry in that one Bond movie —if either of the ladies in question were clothed, sputtering, and looked like they couldn't decide whether to be stunned, amused, or utterly infuriated. So, no, not like Halle Berry or Venus at all. America felt vaguely cheated.

Nonetheless, he looked out sternly at the soaked, spluttering Englishman. "I hope you've learned your lesson, England!" he called. "I trust you'll be properly boring in the future." And with that he strode back to his towel, mission accomplished.

Oh yeah. Classic American ingenuity saves the day again.

~o~

"…the bloody hell just happened?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for the excessive italics in this fic, but America just feels like he emphasizes stuff a lot, okay? That's just how his awesome mind works, dude. Dude.
> 
> The Boston Tea Party was in 1773.
> 
> Halle Berry is in Die Another Day, with Pierce Brosnan as Bond. Roman/Greek goddess of love Venus/Aphrodite was born from sea-foam in some myths (after some of Zeus's semen fell in the ocean…er, yep), and there's a famous painting by Botticelli called 'The Birth of Venus' depicting it. Er, the rising out of the water bit, not the Zeus bit. Thank goodness.
> 
> It's a headcanon of mine that America enjoys trying to talk in various British accents—as with American actors trying to play British characters—but is really, really awful at it. It's another—for even less reason—that England is left-handed.
> 
> Like The Rain, Again (which will be posted soon), this is very much a character study and a relationship fic. What *kind* of relationship it is you'll have to decide for yourself, though, because I have an unhealthily codependent relationship with ambiguity--I MEAN--I'm very artsy and unknowable.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Lake Erie is the fourth largest of the Great Lakes, and forms the border separating Canada and the state of Ohio (of which Cleveland is a city). For a size comparison for Europeans and other silly people, it's about 2,000 square miles (5,000 square kilometers) larger than Wales. Everything is bigger in America, even the glorified puddles!
> 
> All descriptions of Lake Erie are accurate as I can make them (as they say, write what you know…). Oh, and America is a dirty liar: you can't see Canada on the other side. However, he is not being a dirty liar about the mayflies, which crunch underfoot with the sound of breaking finger-bones and smell like rotten fish when they get wet.
> 
> "vicious zebra mussels or poisonous water snakes or krakens": At least two of these things are real.


End file.
